


The Sea Among the Stones

by featherloom



Series: Followers on the Road to Gondolin [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gardens & Gardening, Magic, Multi, Past Abuse, Pining, Psychic Abilities, epic rock gardens, idril is awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-02-03 05:39:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12742104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherloom/pseuds/featherloom
Summary: What do you do when you're constructing a massive escape tunnel in the event your cousin has betrayed your city to the enemy? If you're Idril, you build the greatest rock garden in existence, of course. When the princess invites guests to view her creation, she hopes for a council of war. What she gets is elven drama.





	1. Secrets, Lies, and Sea Longing

DISCLAIMER: Tuor & friends are the property of the Tolkien Estate and I do not claim any ownership of them. This is just for fun.

The princess Idril Celebrindal and her consort, Tuor son of Huor, of the House of the Wing, had grown weary of city life and now prepared to retire to the countryside. The construction of their estate was Gondolin’s worst-kept secret, and the fountains and courtyards buzzed with whatever scraps of information floated towards something like truth.

Looking back, the Gondolindrim reasoned, it made sense. The first thing Tuor had asked the High King for when he entered the city was a simple homestead, and he often groaned to his bemused servants that he yearned for the simple pleasures of country life.

Shortly after Maeglin’s unlooked-for return, Idril relented. Mortals were so short-lived, Idril confided to her friends at the palace; how she hated to deny her husband so mean a wish. Tuor visibly brightened in public as Idril began sharing her plans with architects and kinsmen, particularly Ecthelion of the Fountain and his engineers. Tuor’s friend and manservant Voronwë could be seen everywhere about town, making mysterious preparations and pestering craftsmen and botanists with unusual requests. As word of the house’s strange beauty spread, Idril’s estate took on an air of legend. Theories abounded, but none of the House of the Wing could be persuaded to divulge the slightest of details.

Indeed, only a select few had laid eyes on the House of the Wing as it took shape at the base of a southern mountain, well out of sight of the city. High King Turgon fretted at the placement, but Idril assured him that her new home would be well-guarded.

But now midwinter approached, and the princess had a mind to host a great feast for the craftsmen who had labored for months in secret. In addition to these honored guests, Idril and Tuor had invited a select group of friends to see the House before the greater kingdom descended upon their reluctant hospitality.

Glorfindel, long a friend to Idril and her father, had of course been invited, as well as many of Idril’s closest handmaidens, including dark-skinned, silver-haired Lothariel, whose skill with needlework was rumored to rival Miriel. Eldest of Idril’s handmaidens, she had been among the first to hear of the princess’s plans, and the most tight-lipped when asked by others to reveal them.

Glorfindel’s constant companion Ecthelion had elected to stay in the city as a precaution (of what no one could guess), insisting that he had already seen the house and all its secret delights. The revered scholar Pengolodh had subsequently joined the party, his curiosity piqued by the estate’s rumored strangeness. His Majesty Turgon himself was loath to travel in the countryside in winter, as he could not bear the chill of ice and snow, and had chosen to remain at his palace to preside over the midwinter feast at court.

Maeglin had been interested in joining the excursion out of the city, but Turgon would not be parted from the nephew who had been so miraculously returned to him. Thus, Idril’s cousin had been forced to remain ensconced at his uncle’s side, a misfortune that seemed to cause Idril and her husband no grief at all. Salgant, in turn, would not be separated from Maeglin, and had chosen to stay in the city as well.

Thus, a small but merry smattering of Elven lords and ladies marched forth from the shining city, seeking answers and adventure. Leading the small procession was Tuor’s bannerman Voronwë, followed by Glorfindel, Lothariel, and Elemmakil – guardian of Gondolin’s first Gate, on leave to attend Idril’s feast.

Elemmakil knew Voronwë from the pleasant days of childhood, but his interaction with Tuor had been one conversation, in the dark, full of questions and mistrust. Elemmakil had felt the weight of Doom upon the Man’s shoulders and had been all too happy to hand him off to Ecthelion. His relief and suspicion had later congealed into shame when he heard about the events in Turgon’s court. Watching Voronwë leave, knowing his possible fate as a traitor, had nearly torn him in two. Knowing Tuor had been willing to save Voronwë from a criminal’s death had made him ache with relief and envy.

In fact, Elemmakil loved Tuor more for pleading for Voronwë’s life than any other mighty deeds he now heard about in song. Tuor could have hung the stars and Elemmakil wouldn’t have cared one whit. He hated Tuor for his courage as well, just as he hated the weakness that rose up in him when he thought of the way Voronwë and Tuor had walked together so easily, with such faith and companionship, and deservedly so. About the pair of them there were now many songs. In Elemmakil’s heart, there had only ever been one, and the time to sing it had long since passed. He stirred uncomfortably in his saddle as Voronwë Aranwion, the last mariner of Gondolin and bearer of the most beautiful gray eyes in all of Beleriand, turned to inspect the line of guests straggling behind him.

Elemmakil found himself shrinking into his cloak. Voronwë had insisted that he had not reached Valinor, but Elemmakil was hard-pressed to believe him – his bare-footed friend had returned as a storm brewing with unmarked strength, a strength he felt he could no longer match. Voronwë’s invitation to visit Idril’s retreat had been a surprise, but Ecthelion had insisted he accept, “as a reward for your assistance,” and now here he was, a guard among lords, embarrassed by whatever it was Tuor and Idril thought they owed him.

Elemmakil jumped as Glorfindel laughed with joy at his side, gesturing widely towards the mountains and nearly throwing off his fur coat in his ebullience. Elemmakil had lost track of how many times Glorfindel had reached for his wine flask on the trip to the estate, but, judging by Pengolodh’s severe expression, it had been one too many.

“This is a land for stories and songs! I can see now why Tuor wished for such a wilderness. It has been too long since I have traveled so far outside the city.” The elf lord whooped at the thick pine forests and snow-capped peaks that dominated the rugged southern region of the valley during the winter months.

Pengolodh remained sourly silent, so Voronwë rebuked the golden-haired lord in his stead. “This is hardly the wilderness. Though,” Voronwë added, a faraway smile on his face, “I think the plains and forests here do bring back fond memories for him. Terrible ones as well, but more fond since his Lady resides here as well.”

Lothariel urged her horse to Elemmakil’s right, and with Glorfindel on his left and a whole herd of horses crowding in behind him Elemmakil fought a sense of trapped unease, more so than any of his long stretches guarding the tunnels leading to Gondolin’s hidden entrance. Ridiculous. There was nothing to fear here under the looming silver sky.

“Aren’t we nearly there?” Lothariel asked, adjusting her heavy cloak about her shoulders. Her breath painted the air, and her horse’s hooves were a sharp drumbeat on the frosted ground. “We’ll be needing to light the lanterns soon, to signal our arrival to the household staff.”

Voronwë nodded to her. “Do as you see fit. We are entirely in your hands.”

Lothariel gave Voronwë a warm smile, which the elf returned as she handed him an ornate lantern. Her fingers seemed to linger on his a moment too long as she set the lantern oil alight, warming both their faces in an amber glow. Elemmakil felt his teeth clench.

Lothariel and her handmaidens busied themselves lighting the wicks of the company’s lamps, and Elemmakil snatched the moment to speak. “I’ve heard strange tales about this house. Not actually the house, I suppose, but its gardens. That they are brutal and beautiful. That they are ugly beyond redemption. That they are a work of genius.”

“Someone has been talking too much,” Tuor’s bannerman muttered bitterly. Voronwë shifted uncomfortably, sighing before he said aloud, in a careful tone: “I would say that all of those things are true, but the Lady wishes for it to be so.”

Elemmakil nodded distractedly, straining to hear a strange new noise mingling with the familiar sounds of the valley, a rhythmic hiss, boom, and sigh that raised gooseflesh on his skin and stirred a deep and unknowable longing in his chest. His heart and stomach howled with the need for whatever that sound was, and it frightened him.

“That cannot be the sea,” Glorfindel said, his voice suddenly completely sober, and trembling with the same yawning hurt that Elemmakil felt. The elf lord seemed pale and taut, far from his usual jovial dignity.

“It is not the sea,” Voronwë replied, a trace of smugness coloring the edges of his voice as they cleared the final rise. “Behold.”

With the exception of Lothariel, Idril’s handmaidens paused in their work with a chorus of gasps. The other riders followed suit, and silence breathed outward as the company fanned out across the ridge for a better view. Elemmakil found himself between Voronwë and Pengolodh, who ran one finger along his lower lip, his eyes sparkling with sudden interest. At Pengolodh’s other side, Glorfindel stood in his saddle, eyes shielded to get a better view. Voronwë’s whole frame radiated pride, although a strange weariness and tension seemed to darken his features. Perhaps it was the sound of the sea, Elemmakil thought. Such a sound could not be pleasant for him.

Elemmakil had little thought to dwell on Voronwë’s mood, however, for the estate now spread out at his feet, extending a full half-mile in every direction out from the House of the Wing, a three-storied tower crowned by a ring of seven gigantic swans pulling a golden ship.

“I still think that roof is in poor taste,” Lothariel murmured under her breath.

“It was the only thing she let Tuor design,” Voronwë muttered back, his tone full of both chagrin and affection. “I don’t think he realized it would be so large.”

Elemmakil almost laughed at that, but found himself unable to pull in the air. Voronwë had claimed this was not the sea, but Elemmakil, who had only seen the ocean in paintings, found himself reluctant to believe it. As far as the eye could see, stones of every size had been carefully sculpted, piled, decorated, and arranged into the guise of rolling waves and tranquil lagoons. It was the living ocean come to the land of stones.

Every time Elemmakil blinked he swore he saw the sunlight rippling and dappling on the surface of water, saw a fish leap out of the corner of his eye, saw a bit of driftwood breach the surface of the sea. Upon closer inspection, as Elemmakil willed his eyes to see past the illusion, he saw the precisely chiseled stones, inlaid with silver and steel and quartz, which gave the impression of glittering water. He saw the finely polished curves of ripples. He inhaled the scent of the sprays of snakeroot and athelas planted along the ridges of breaking waves in a fine imitation of raging foam. He noted the carved mollusks and barnacles embedded in dried wood jutting out from the sea of stones, saw the flashes of pearls and precious stones strewn across the false waters, marveled at the skilled glass mosaics that conjured sea creatures and sandbars from nonexistent depths. As the false sea approached the house at the base of the mountain, the stones became larger, smoother, and more uniformly blue, solidifying the illusion of a seascape marching towards a dim horizon. At this distance, Elemmakil was unable to see whether this was the result of careful stonework or a painter’s skilled hand. At this point, Elemmakil was not sure that Lord Tuor hadn’t simply conjured Ulmo up to enchant the stone himself. Taken altogether, this seemed nothing less than witchcraft.

“Is it pleasing to your eyes?” Elemmakil jumped at Voronwë’s voice. The elf had moved past pride and into nerves, wrapping himself in his cloak. “Idril is a master of her craft, but I confess that I feared the Noldor would find it unsightly.” He paused. “The roof is unsightly, yes, but there is not much to be done about that.” Lothariel laughed softly somewhere behind them.

“It is stunning!” Elemmakil exclaimed. For several excruciating seconds, the only other sounds were the echoes of his outburst and the rhythmic booming the party had heard as they approached. Elemmakil wished the sea was real, so that he could sink to the bottom of it.

“It feels like home,” Glorfindel said, his voice so quiet Elemmakil barely heard him. The elf lord was still pale, but an edge of something that almost seemed like menace had crept into his voice. His forehead creased with a quiet pain that frightened Elemmakil.

Pengolodh cleared his throat, cast a worried glance in Glorfindel’s direction, and gestured towards the estate. “How do you manage the sound of the waves?”

Voronwë, seemingly relieved to find himself in the familiar territory of logistics, pointed towards the sheer mountainside, where a honeycomb of caverns had been carved into the cliff face. “The sound of wind moving through those tunnels generates the noise. It took quite a bit of cunning on the part of Ecthelion’s engineers, but Idril’s calculations proved it could be done.”

“Did you see the islands?” asked Lothariel cheerfully. “The islands are my favorites.”

There were islands, Elemmakil saw now: wide swaths of sand and small stones raked through with intricate rippling patterns, complete with strange, sinuous vegetation, bare and brown in the cold weather, and topped off with gigantic stones that, on closer inspection, were miniature mountains that contained their own roads, cities, and, now that it was approaching evening, beacons burning in a few lighthouses. Across the garden, elves bearing candles were carefully picking their way towards the final unlit isles. This was not simply a sea. It was an ocean, and it contained multitudes.

“Quite a lot of trouble to go through for a simple country estate,” Pengolodh commented wryly.

“My Lord Tuor hears the call of the sea, perhaps more than any of our kind,” Voronwë answered smoothly. “This garden is a balm to that call, and a source of healing.”

“Can one truly call it a garden?” teased a lord several yards to Elemmakil’s left.

Voronwë bristled, but Glorfindel interjected before Voronwë’s temper could truly flare. “I prefer flowers myself,” he said softly, “but I am too Noldor to deny fine craftsmanship when I see it. Surely, Lady Idril has produced one of the finest works to grace the kingdom of Gondolin. In secret, no less.” And there was that fine edge of something dangerous back in the golden-haired elf’s tone. Elemmakil wondered if anyone noticed.

Evidently not. A murmur of agreement swept through the crowd, and Voronwë seemed to relax.

“So much stone,” Elemmakil said absently, before he had even truly finished the thought. “Where does it all come from?”

Elemmakil instantly regretted his words when Glorfindel and Pengolodh both turned to face Voronwë, who met their gazes resolutely, running his fingers through his restless horse’s mane. “From the mountain, of course.” His casual tone belied his nervousness. Elemmakil sighed inwardly. His friend had always been a terrible liar. Of course, who had ever had to lie in Gondolin?

Sure enough, the older elves remained unconvinced. “You mean from those?” Pengolodh indicated the vents carved into the mountain face, which boomed and sighed on cue. “I doubt if you carved a hundred of those it would gift you this much stone.” The scholar chuckled. “Does Idril plan to dig all the way down to the fires of Aule?”

Voronwë laughed in return, but Glorfindel’s eyes narrowed. “The princess is not one to waste resources on décor, no matter how much her husband might take joy in the results. She has a larger purpose here, underneath this grand design, and we have a right to know the truth. What has she foreseen?”

Voronwë took a steadying breath, but held fast under the elf lord’s gaze. “The Princess Idril and Lord Tuor will explain all to our guests after dinner,” he announced, loudly enough to be heard by all. “Who would like a tour of the grounds before we enjoy my lord and lady’s hospitality?”

A cheer erupted from the gathered party, and more lanterns emerged as Idril’s noble guests made ready to ride to the gates of the House of the Wing. Glorfindel, however, remained unappeased. “I know you are plotting something beneath this – this illusion, mariner. This decoration is meant to lure us and lull us, as the creatures you once described drown men at sea. But I am not one to be shepherded on to sleep like some child.” Glorfindel’s hand moved before Elemmakil was aware of it, but Pengolodh urged his mount forward to block the elf lord’s grab for Voronwë.

“You feel the sea-longing, my friend,” the scholar said through gritted teeth. “You feel it strongly. Calm yourself and remember where you are.”

Glorfindel slapped Pengolodh’s hands away. “How can I remain calm when all that is needed is the smell of saltwater for the scene to be complete? Even Ecthelion has been keeping this from me. I would know what it is. As the protector of this land, it is my right to know what it is. Voronwë, last mariner of Gondolin, look at me!”

Lothariel urged her own mount forward and attempted to pull at Voronwë’s arm, but the younger elf had already defiantly met Glorfindel’s gaze. Elemmakil had heard tales of Glorfindel’s Sight, but had never seen it in life. Glorfindel glowed with an inner fire, silver mingled with gold, and his eyes simmered and sparked with something brighter than starlight. It was said Glorfindel could see your entire life with a glance, and could sometimes even speak with prophecy. Within the safety of Gondolin, it had generally been a party trick. This felt like an interrogation. Elemmakil found himself reaching for his dagger.

He had barely begun to ease it out of his scabbard when Glorfindel suddenly slumped, diminished and shamefaced, rubbing the bridge of his nose with one gloved hand while he reached for his flask with the other. Elemmakil thought he would drink, but he merely handed it to Voronwë.

“Pardon me,” the elf lord said, barely audible against the boom and crash of the false sea.

Voronwë, shaking, took a long swig and handed the drink back to Glorfindel. Elemmakil stared at his friend in horror. Voronwë was pale and strangely . . . translucent, momentarily, as if he had spent so much effort fending off Glorfindel’s Sight that he had forgotten what it was to exist.

“Have faith in your princess,” Lothariel admonished, nearly trembling with fury as she readjusted Voronwë’s cloak around his shoulders. Fortunately, the elf already looked much recovered. “Do you not trust her? Do you not trust Lord Tuor?”

Glorfindel paused for a moment. “I trust his heart,” he finally offered.

“That is all that needs to be trusted,” Voronwë replied, choking and then coughing roughly into his elbow, as if he had swallowed the entire flask into his lungs instead of his stomach. For a moment, it almost sounded like he had been drowning. Lothariel gently placed a hand on his shoulder. Pengolodh pinned Glorfindel with a furious glare, which Glorfindel had the grace to acknowledge with a solemn nod. Elemmakil covered his dagger with his cloak and tried not to look at anyone, suddenly aware again of his own insignificance in this mighty company. Discomfort reverberated around the company in waves.

Lothariel seemed to become suddenly aware of the heavy silence. “All will be revealed when we enter the house and meet with my lord and lady,” Lothariel announced, hand still on Voronwë’s shoulder. “Shall we sail across the sea?”

Slowly building cheers and laughter greeted this announcement, and the riders rearranged themselves into a line behind Voronwë. Elemmakil allowed himself to fall back, filled with nerves and embarrassment. A half-Sinda sailor had challenged one of Arda’s mightiest Noldorin princes and had managed to win. Voronwë had left an eager but timid explorer and returned a conqueror.

Elemmakil had waited for his return in a tunnel for decades, refusing to give up even the slightest hope. But the thing about waiting, Elemmakil thought as he dismounted and picked his way across Idril’s masterpiece, was that it required you stay the same, and staying the same meant being left behind.


	2. Of Islands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elemmakil has an important conversation (or two). Tuor and Idril host a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a creepy tale from Voronwe's adventures on the high seas here, so if it bothers you, here be zombies. The zombies are sandwiched between two blocks of pure cheese for your convenience.

The dancing and feasting had gone on for hours and it was very nearly midnight. The cold slithered into the House of the Wing, rearing back as it struck the great fires of the Great Hall on the first floor of the tower. Warmth and the smell of baking drifted up from the basement, soaking the tiled floors and providing a welcome respite for the merrymakers dancing inside. 

The tables had been rolled to the side to make way for a ring of dancers weaving about in a complicated reel to the drums and flutes and harps of Idril’s minstrels. Up until moments ago, the music had been led by Lord Tuor himself, whose voice and flute had been as enchanting as any elf’s, and his company would have had him laboring all night had Glorfindel not noticed his exhaustion and enthusiastically stormed the stage. The broad, bearded Man now sprawled on his High Seat while Princess Idril, seated on her own throne, playfully pulled at his beard in an effort to rouse him enough to take some wine. Elemmakil could not help but smile at the scene. 

Tuor’s trident, bejeweled, deadly, and engraved with three hundred names, lay flat on the table next to them, its haft half-covered by a shredded cabbage. Elemmakil recalled hearing a rumor that Maeglin had labored for over a year to complete the trident to Tuor’s specifications, and imagined that the prince would pass out from sheer rage at the demeaning sight. Elemmakil briefly considered the notion that this was an unseemly thought for a royal guard, but his (slightly drunk) delight won out in the end and Elemmakil tucked the conjured image of a fainting Maeglin away for later enjoyment during his long and lonely stints in the depths of the Encircling Mountains. 

Elemmakil must have been even more drunk than he thought, for he found himself in front of the High Seat, with the royal couple expectantly looking down at him.

Idril smiled warmly. “You appear to be amused, Elemmakil of the First Gate. May I share in your merriment?”

Elemmakil shrugged. “I was just thinking, my lady, that the prince would be none too happy to see his work in such a state.”

Idril and Tuor exchanged a furtive, quick glance before their eyes followed Elemmakil’s gaze to settle on the trident resting on the table. Tuor leapt to his feet and plucked up the weapon, dusting it off and examining it closely before leaning it carefully against the High Seat.

“A good thing indeed you noticed,” Idril said with a soft, musical laugh. “It appears my husband is not keeping up with his new toy.” Tuor harrumphed and buried his face in his wine bottle, running a sweaty hand through his straw-colored hair.

They made a fine couple, Elemmakil thought. Lord Tuor was handsome enough for a mortal, and nearly as tall as the King, and Idril’s beauty was of a kind that only existed in song. She was shorter than her husband, but mightier in her presence, lit with the same inner fire that sparkled in Glorfindel’s eyes. Her gold-spun hair shimmered in the torchlight, which gathered around her figure in ripples and glittering motes that reminded Elemmakil of fireflies above the surface of a lake. Her power bathed the crystals on her white gown with a glow that reminded the guard of the Sun. Images of flowers and horses seemed to chase each other down the length of the fabric, and Elemmakil blinked away the illusion so he wouldn’t stare.

Clearing his throat, he remembered himself and bowed low before the pair. “I wanted to extend my humble gratitude for your invitation, my lord, my lady. I must confess I am puzzled as to why I am here.”

“You were instrumental in completing my husband’s mission, Elemmakil,” Idril replied, doing her best to hide a patient sort of amusement. “I am afraid all I did was interrogate your husband and bring him to Lord Ecthelion,” Elemmakil replied. “In comparison to the great deeds Lord Tuor and Voronwë accomplished, I fear I did little but cause them grief.”

“You were a guard,” Tuor replied evenly, smiling down at Elemmakil. “It was your job to be suspicious, and to cause us grief. We wanted to honor you for your faithful service.”

Elemmakil felt himself flush and held his hands to his sides to keep from wringing them. “I wanted to personally thank you, my lord, for your defense of Voronwë in His Majesty’s court. Voronwë and I were great friends in childhood, and I rejoiced at his safe return. I can never repay you for the kindnesses you showed him, or the service you have done for me.”

Tuor raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?” he answered, twirling his wine glass thoughtfully in one hand. “I thank you for your kind words but cannot accept your gratitude. My bannerman is dear to me, as well, and I am afraid that what I did was more selfish than you make it out to be. I love him as well, you see.”

“That you do,” Idril replied wryly. “Sometimes I wake in the cool of the morning and am surprised that Voronwë has not joined us abed.” Tuor spluttered into his wine and rounded on his wife, eyes wide, before Idril laughed again and patted his arm. “Because he is like our _child_ , Tuor. Do not misjudge my words.”

Elemmakil was so busy trying to slow his breathing and hear anything past his thudding heartbeat – by all the Vala, he had thought he might die for a moment there – that he did not notice Lothariel gliding up to the High Seat next to him. “We are nearly ready,” she said. “The observatory has been prepared. Has the guest list for the private party changed?”

“It has not,” Idril answered, gravity replacing merriment on her face. “Please deliver the invitations discreetly.” 

Tuor rose and stretched, disguising a yawn as he took up the trident in a firm grip. He considered it a moment. “It is a shame. It really is quite beautiful, too beautiful to use, almost.” 

“But it is a weapon nonetheless,” Idril replied, standing and dusting off her skirts. “We will be in the observatory, Lothariel. Please assemble our guests before the next bell. I wish to be done with this business before dawn.” She paused, and half-turned to gaze on Elemmakil, who now cowered under the impression he had been privy to something private and dangerous. “Perhaps Elemmakil should fetch Voronwë. I believe he’s wandered outside.” 

Lothariel nodded and placed a delicate blue rose in Elemmakil’s hands. “Please pass this on to Voronwë,” she said pleasantly before drifting away, a basket full of similar blue roses nestled in the crook of her arm. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Elemmakil found Voronwë not far from the main doors, kneeling at the base of one of the smaller sand and stone islands in Idril’s illusory sea. This isle had no lighthouse, but what looked like a small cauldron burned inside a circle of standing stones at the peak of a rounded black hill. Cairns of meticulously stacked pebbles lined the black rock on sinuous terraces, and a winding trail of smaller standing stones marched all the way to the shoreline, where Voronwë was busy drawing the image of a sailing ship in the sand with his forefinger.

The guard nearly turned back, sure he was interrupting a private moment, when he remembered the rose tucked into the palm of his hand. He cleared his throat. “I’ve a message for you.”

Voronwë nodded. “It is time, then.” He sighed. “I had hoped for another few moments.”

“I can leave . . .” Elemmakil offered, hoping the disappointment didn’t show in his voice. 

“No!” Voronwë said sharply. Then, with greater gentleness: “Please stay. Sit.” 

Gingerly, careful of the stonework all around him, Elemmakil settled at Voronwë’s side. Casting about for a topic of conversation, he settled on the strangeness of the model island in front of him. “This one has no village,” he remarked. “It’s not like the others.”

“I designed this one,” Voronwë answered. “As close to how I remembered it as I could.” 

Elemmakil glanced at him in surprise. “You encountered this place on your voyage?”

Voronwë nodded. “We never named it. We only stopped for the signal fire, you see,” he said, pointing to the cauldron at the peak of the hill. “We thought we might find someone there, someone who could point us in the direction of Valinor. But there was never anyone that I could see.” “You did not go on the island yourself?” 

Voronwë shook his head. “Only one ship went ashore, and it was not mine. We had learned by this time, you see. We’d learned that the Sea was full of inventive and exciting ways to kill us, and we learned that, while Ulmo loves us, he would rather murder us than allow us to reach Valinor.” Voronwë laughed mirthlessly, and Elemmakil found his hand reaching for the other elf’s arm. His fingers rested heavily on the back of Voronwë’s hand, and the other elf twitched but did not pull away. 

“They went ashore in the evening hour, and we waited all night as the tide came in and out, near a dozen ships by that point, weighing anchor a mile away. At dawn, the fire was out, and those that had gone ashore were hanging by their necks from the stones lining the terraces. Some of them looked as though they had been dead for months, picked apart by the birds, bleached by the Sun.” 

Elemmakil gasped. “What did such a thing?” 

Voronwë shuddered. “We did not stay to find out. Three of the sailors did go ashore to try to recover the bodies, so we could bury them at sea, but when he reached to cut the first down the corpse reached out and snapped his neck. We heard it all the way from the boats. The other two ran like mad towards the beaches, but their boat was gone. They tried to swim back, but we never saw them again. Not alive, anyway. We waited all night, hoping they would resurface. Can you guess what we saw the next day?”

“They were hanging from the stones as well,” Elemmakil murmured. His shiver had nothing to do with the cold. 

Voronwë nodded. “We left.” 

Elemmakil closed his fingers around Voronwë’s hand. “I wish I could take those wicked memories from you. I have not the talent.”

Voronwë shook his head. “It was not all so terrible. Some islands were only islands, and pleasant enough. And if I do not remember those who made the journey to Mandos’ Halls, who will?” 

Elemmakil frowned at the hateful model. “Why recreate such a horrible place?”

For a long minute, Voronwë was silent. “My father has a mosaic of the Grinding Ice in his study. He pieced it together himself. I always wondered why he had created a tribute to the place that killed so many of his comrades. But now, I see. What happened to me – it is still happening, all the time. It’s a war. Being able to build this place means I have won a battle.” Voronwë pulled a strand of hair out of his eyes and let out a hollow laugh. “To be honest, I worried at first that little corpses would appear overnight on this island, and I still check it every morning. Tuor told me if that ever happened he would tear the thing down himself, but it has not happened yet. Perhaps I really am winning the war.”

Elemmakil stayed silent for a few long minutes, struggling for the right words. “It would be my honor to fight it with you.”

Voronwë chuckled and wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. “I have been meaning to thank you. My father tells me you visited him often while I was gone.”

Elemmakil nodded in surprise. “I stopped in every few months, when I had a week or two away from the gate. He worried for you, desperately.” 

“I yearned to return to him every day we were at sea,” Voronwë said wistfully. “I was little more than a child when I left. It’s been strange, traveling with Tuor. The lives of Men are so . . . structured. You are a child, then a parent, then an elder. I had become used to imagining my father in the fashion of Men, and I pictured myself curled up and safe in his lap. But that is not the way of us, is it? I left a child but came back a stranger. There are times I feel older than my father. A few weeks ago I nearly called him ‘little brother.’ We talk of art and death and he tells me I have my mother’s face and then I leave. I think I understand now why the Noldor live so far afield from their parents. I’m not sure I could stand to be near him. The strangeness would drive me mad for sure.” 

Elemmakil, spurred on by liquid courage and the need to fix the pensive frown on the other elf’s face, tightened his grip on Voronwë’s hand until the other elf’s fingers wound around his in reflex. “I should have visited you sooner.”

Voronwë turned to him. “Why didn’t you? I would have loved to have seen you, old friend.”

“I shouldn’t have given you to Ecthelion. I should have begged for your life right then, as Tuor did.”

“I think fate had different ideas,” Voronwë said, bemused. “Have you really been hiding from me all this time? Because you didn’t think to throw away your life to save mine? How negligent of you.”

“It is not a jest,” Elemmakil snapped. Hesitantly, he pulled Voronwë towards him until their foreheads were touching. Breathing out slowly, he pictured himself falling into the darkness of Voronwë’s thoughts. _The elf was struggling just beneath the surface of the boiling sea, opaque with foam whipped up by the rage of a storm. A rope and sail and a hundred nightmares had hold of his legs, dragging him below as the sailor struggled against the water crawling into his nose and mouth. Elemmakil gripped his arm and pulled._

“I did not save you then,” Elemmakil said, “so I will have to settle for this, every day, a hundred times a day, if that is what it takes.”

Voronwë gazed into his eyes and let out a shaky breath. A snowflake landed on his eyelashes and he blinked it away. The mariner seemed lighter, easier than he had been moments before. He closed his fingers around both of Elemmakil’s hands. 

“I cannot promise – that is, you should know . . . There is no one else, but . . .” He let out a shaky breath and raised their intertwined hands. “This may – this may be all I can ever offer. Just this.” 

Elemmakil took Voronwë’s fingers and brought them to his lips. “Then it will always be enough.”

Voronwë chewed on his bottom lip and the snow fell with sudden vigor on his face, wetting it enough that one could almost ignore the tears. “We need to return to the house in time for the meeting. If I’m late, Tuor might dismiss me.” There was no real conviction behind the mariner's statement.

“That would be a shame,” Elemmakil agreed, playing along. “If he does send you away, I think you would make a magnificent guard. I know someone who could give you the quite the recommendation.”

Voronwë laughed then, a true laugh, and it was the most beautiful sound Elemmakil had ever heard. He wished he could fully enjoy it, but the last of the warmth of drink was now leaving him and everything he had said and done in the last few minutes washed over him like a mudslide. He had invited himself into Voronwë’s mind, confessed to his childhood crush, and was now holding hands with him. “I am afraid – I have been very forward . . .”

Voronwë chuckled and pried open Elemmakil’s fingers to remove the blue rose he had received earlier. “Let us return to the house before you think better of everything you have just said and leave me quite disappointed.”

“I would _never_ – you are safe here, with me,” Elemmakil insisted, trying to recover some of his earlier charm and gusto. 

“I wonder if you will still think that, come dawn,” Voronwë said as he unfurled the rose into a long, blue ribbon, a message written in delicate silver ink. Voronwë held it up to the light for Elemmakil to see:

YOU ARE INVITED TO JOIN THE HOUSE OF THE WING FOR A COUNCIL OF WAR.


	3. Gathering Clues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idril makes her case against her cousin Maeglin to an (initially) skeptical crowd.
> 
> EDIT: Somehow a whole page of this chapter disappeared when I posted it, and I've only just now noticed. Sorry about that. Please enjoy the full edition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! The holidays were busy, and this one took a while before I was satisfied with it. There are a few AU elements here: I changed Maeglin's cover story a little bit, and I made a few assumptions about Maeglin's actions following his capture. Please enjoy!

Voronwë cupped Elemmakil’s hand in a careful, loose grip, as if he were holding the tail of a sleeping lion. He hoped the other elf didn’t notice. Elemmakil had told him that the princess herself had sent him out to fetch Voronwë, and now the ill-fated mariner was beginning to feel a little ill-used. The princess, as always, knew what she was about.

Voronwë had been delighted to see Elemmakil again, although he seemed quieter than he remembered. Voronwë had also been grateful for the momentary peace Elemmakil had brought him when he pulled him out of his mind’s favorite toxic memory cycle, the one that ended with him drowning, torn apart by his fellow sailors and Ulmo’s grip. For the space of a heartbeat, Voronwë had been nestled in the warmth of Elemmakil’s affection. Elemmakil held him in a singular regard that Voronwë had never even experienced with his father.

His father, much like many of the Noldor in exile, had never considered children in the bliss of Aman. What need was there for offspring when one enjoyed eternal paradise? It was only when Aranwë arrived in wild and dangerous Beleriand that he took a wife and fathered a son. Voronwë could never quite shake the feeling that he was a backup plan.

When he had returned from his voyaging, he discovered that Aranwë had converted his bedchamber into a sparkling, three-dimensional mosaic, which he proudly touted as his masterpiece.

 _Strange,_ Voronwë remembered thinking, _I had hoped that was me._ Although, he had scolded himself, there was no reason to think such a thing – Noldor valued above all else the work of their hands. His father was as Noldor as he had always been. It was Voronwë who had changed, Voronwë who was now not as elvish as he should be.

Tuor had taken one look at the mosaics, turned to Voronwë, and asked if they could sleep outside the city, under the stars. Voronwë, to his own surprise, had immediately agreed and they spent their first night in Gondolin in the shade of a massive oak, the noise of the city a faint echo. Tuor had touched his shoulder and whispered to him, “You have done it.” The elf had sobbed into his blanket roll, and Tuor had whittled at a fallen branch with his knife and pretended not to notice.

Voronwë had realized then that to Tuor, he had always been worthy of his regard, just as Elemmakil had treasured his company before he had left on his disastrous voyage. For them, he had always been the only plan. Perhaps that was why he had spat out a pledge of eternal love so readily earlier this evening, packing a century’s worth of formal courtship into the space of a sentence. He had spent entirely too much time around Men.

The elves slipped through the banquet hall as the festivities continued. Idril’s staff served wine with a zeal nearly matched by the guests’ capacity to drink it, so none of the revelers noticed the pair duck into the stairwell, much to Voronwë’s relief. The last thing he needed were scandalous rumors about an overnight pledge of love. Voronwë’s hand tightened around Elemmakil’s, and the other elf hesitantly squeezed back. He wondered if the guard was now thinking better of his words, as well. Perhaps they had been too hasty, but Voronwë could not shake the creeping premonition of doom hovering just out of sight. If they did not act now, then when?

Voronwë climbed the last stair and found Lothariel nervously twirling the empty wicker basket between her fingers. She raised an eyebrow. “You’re very nearly late, Voronwë. And I see our guest did indeed find you, as Idril hoped he would.”

Voronwë felt himself flush and carefully freed his hand from Elemmakil’s. Quite ill-used, indeed. “Have they started?”

“Only just. Glorfindel took nearly as much time as you did getting here.”

The three entered the chamber, and Voronwë felt rather than heard Elemmakil gasp behind him at the scene. The conservatory was at the prow of the great ship built on the roof of the House of the Wing, a mammoth glass dome whose north wall looked out onto the valley of Gondolin. The city itself could be faintly seen in the distance, a string of lit pearls in the dark pool of the valley.

All around the east and west walls of the conservatory, towering blue rose bushes climbed the iron framework of the structure, oblivious to the cold outside. Spurred on by Idril’s magic, blue rose petals drifted through the air in slow, descending circles, lit by drifting baubles of golden light. At the room’s center was a massive round table, upon which a map of the Hidden Valley and the Encircling Mountains had been engraved into the dark wood. A somber group of ten, including Voronwë’s party, gathered at the edges of the table. Most of them fidgeted and watched the Lord and Lady, who stood across from Voronwë, expectantly.

“I shall come to the point,” Idril said, crossing her hands and eyeing each guest in turn. “We are betrayed.”

It struck Voronwë, not for the first time, that this was a poor setting for such grave news. They should be in a clammy basement lit by torches, not a rooftop garden illuminated by serene orbs and the silver snow sky gathered close above their heads.

“Betrayed?” Pengolodh asked, rubbing his thumb along his lower lip. “How? By whom?”

Idril placed one delicate ivory hand on the dark table, running her fingers along a particularly infamous stretch of northern mountains. “When Prince Maeglin disappeared into the Encircling Mountains, he did not tell us the truth. He was not lost for four months. He was taken by the Enemy to Angband, where he revealed to Morgoth himself the location of the entrance to Gondolin. Maeglin did not find his way back through luck and ingenuity. He was released, so that the Enemy might take us unawares after he had time to prepare his forces for siege.”

Silence choked the room like fog. Elemmakil’s hand found Voronwë’s, and this time Voronwë did not stop himself from taking it.

Glorfindel finally stirred, raising a critical eyebrow at the princess. “My Lady, with all respect, are you sure of this? You know well that I have no love for Maeglin, but he did march with his uncle to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, where he fought bravely and with great honor. It was not so long ago in my counting of the years, and I hesitate to name him a traitor.”

“Maeglin is indeed brave, in his own way,” Idril agreed. “He must have been threatened with foul torment indeed to have given away our secrets. If he had but confessed it to us when he returned, I would be hailing him a hero. But I fear that he has . . . other . . . motivations.” At this last statement, Tuor’s lip curled into a snarl.

“I hope My Lady will not take offense,” Pengolodh began carefully, “if I ask what prove you have against the Prince’s honor?”

“I take no offense,” Idril replied. “Much like Glorfindel, I have little love for my cousin and I have ever distrusted his motivations. Yet he is my cousin still, and at first I was eager to cast my suspicions aside and see past his unkind nature, which I myself lay at the feet of his wretched father.” She shook her head and frowned deeply. “I doubt I will ever forgive Eöl for what he did to my aunt and her only child.”

A few of the golden orbs floating about the room glided toward her, settling above her hair like a crown. “I make my case for my cousin’s betrayal with three pieces of evidence.”

“First,” she said, “is Maeglin’s story. Maeglin claims that he was lost in the Encircling Mountains after a mining accident for four months before eventually finding his way back, none the worse for wear. Yet I have seen his maps of the region, and they are masterful both for their completeness and their attention to detail. He could not have been lost in those mountains.”

“You’ve seen his maps?” Glorfindel’s eyebrows nearly reached his hairline.

“When he was missing, I pored over his surveys of the area to help direct search parties, and made meticulous copies for myself,” Idril replied. “No one knew the Echoriath better than Maeglin. He has the same wandering spirit as his mother.” Idril allowed herself a wistful smile before continuing. “When I compared his older maps of the region to those he made after his return, I found no evidence of any new caverns, tunnels, or passages in his notes. He only mapped the location of the alleged disaster.”

“Might he have merely deemed the new caverns too unimportant to be mapped?” Pengolodh offered, but uncertainty crept into his voice even as he spoke.

Idril shook her head. “Maeglin is nothing if not thorough. Normally, he would rather cut off his own arm than leave a map unfinished. In any case, according to Maeglin, the flora and fauna that kept him alive in the caves he found are important enough to merit a visit from a botanist, if nothing else, yet he has refused to divulge the location of these organisms to all that have asked, despite the respect and acclaim such a collaboration would have garnered him. I have concluded that Maeglin’s journey had been deliberately erased. He did not want anyone to retrace his steps.”

“As I understand it, the prince was wounded,” one of Idril’s maids said, a scarf hiding her unusual scarlet hair. “Perhaps he simply wished to forget such a tragic circumstance. It is the way of many of the survivors of the Helcaraxë – you know how your father refuses still to walk on ice and snow.”

Idril nodded gravely. “About those wounds. My lord husband saw them firsthand. Describe to our guests what you discovered, my dear.” Tuor rubbed one giant hand on the back of his neck and glanced around the room before lifting the sleeve of his right arm, revealing a cruel scar. The brand was a raised, pale weal on the inside of his forearm, in the crude shape of an eye. “You all well know that I spent a good number of years a slave to orcs and worse,” he said, the words knife-sharp and bitter. Idril’s floating globes seemed to dim a little as he spoke, and she placed a comforting hand on the side of his face.

“I volunteered to spar with Maeglin after he returned, to put aside old enmities. He was happy to oblige, much to my surprise, and eager to show the wounds he sustained during his trials. He has a large burn scar on the inside of his forearm, right here,” Tuor continued, indicating his own scar. “He claimed it was a burn from the blast, but I know what kind of wound it was I saw. I’ve seen its kind inflicted before. Someone held a hot iron against his skin, burning away all evidence of another scar. The same kind of scarring was also prominent on his back, probably to hide whip marks. The edges of a few of them were still visible.”

Idril’s red-headed handmaid sobbed into a kerchief, and Lothariel surrounded her shoulders in a firm grip. Glorfindel and Pengolodh looked bleached of all color. Voronwë raised his head and met Tuor’s gaze. The man’s blue eyes reflected sadness now instead of anger. “I must admit I am impressed with the prince’s fortitude. The kinds of wounds he had are enough to kill a man, from the pain alone. He endured much while in captivity.” He placed his hand over his wife’s but maintained his steady gaze at Voronwë. “I still have dreams of watching those I love put to similar torment, while I watch.”

“But why?” the red-haired handmaiden asked, dabbing tears from her eyes. Voronwë recognized her as a widow of one of the sailors on his voyage. He would have to speak with her later, now that she was officially joining their household. “Why endure such agony? Why lie and betray the city? To what end?”

“Ah, that brings me to my second point, Annaiel,” Idril said with a sigh. “My cousin’s political maneuverings. It is our belief that Maeglin intends to use the Enemy’s attack to take control of the city and all its resources and treasures,” Idril concluded with a wry smile. “Such has always been his desire, and I fear his greed blinds him to the truth of the Enemy’s intentions toward him.”

Tuor tapped the edge of the table with his fingers, earning the room’s attention. “Pengolodh, how many political councils has Maeglin called in the last year? Secret councils, much like this one?”

Pengolodh’s eyebrows knit together in concentration. “I hadn’t particularly noticed until now. He is, after all, the prince and chief engineer. I would say – oh, at least a dozen.”

Idril nodded. “And, Lord Glorfindel, how many of these councils have you, Lord Ecthelion, or my father been invited to attend?” Glorfindel’s face darkened with new fury. “None, my lady. I knew not they were happening.”

“And yet, Salgant has been invited to every one,” Idril replied drily.

Glorfindel clapped his hand to his face and nearly howled with laughter. “Salgant? Salgant, who would run from a lame deer?”

“Indeed,” Idril said. “But he is loyal to my cousin, as are the other lords Maeglin has been gathering to himself. I believe he intends to stage a coup upon the Enemy’s attack.”

Pengolodh shook his head. “Imbecile. A rebellion under my nose.”

Idril shook her head. “Do not fault yourself, Pengolodh. Since his return, Maeglin has been a model leader and kinsman. Modest, charitable, polite. You would likely suspect a kitten more than he.”

“This apparent epiphany – and the dramatic manner of his return – has earned him the absolute love of our King,” Tuor said. “He has gained enough influence to do great harm to Gondolin if given the opportunity. Great harm like removing all the current guards of the Seven Gates.”

This news was met by a round of gasps. Glorfindel’s knuckles went white as he gripped the table’s edge. Voronwë could not be sure, but he thought he saw the wood begin to crack. “Ecthelion?”

Idril met his gaze. “Ecthelion informed me earlier this week. As of yesterday evening, he is relieved of duty. He is to join you as a personal guard of my father in the city.”

Glorfindel’s mouth worked, and a pale glow seethed around his form as a flush bloomed across his face.

“My lady,” Elemmakil nearly whispered beside Voronwë. The elf jumped; he’d nearly forgotten his companion was there. “My lady, please. I do not understand. Have I failed in my duties?” The guard’s skin seemed oddly translucent. Voronwë knit his fingers with the guard’s and put his other hand on Elemmakil’s shoulder to steady him.

Tuor shook his head, a grim look upon his face. “As I told you earlier, you perform your duties impeccably. That is why you are being removed.” He paused for a moment before adding, “If it pleases you, I have made arrangements for you to join our household as a guard. I know it is a position of less honor than the one you previously held, but it will be of no less import, I assure you.”

Elemmakil closed his eyes and swayed heavily into Voronwë, who caught him in an awkward embrace. Despite the grave circumstances, Voronwë could swear a brief, conspiratorial grin crossed both Idril and Tuor’s faces, and he took the opportunity to scowl at them with righteous indignation.

Idril coughed into a delicate white sleeve and continued. “Maeglin claims that this change will keep the guards fresh and focused. Setting aside his betrayal, I would almost agree with him. Yet, I believe it is time for our final, and most troubling, piece of evidence. My lord husband?”

Tuor stalked away from the table and disappeared behind a particularly bulky rose bush. Moments later, a shrill, ululating call reverberated throughout the room, and Glorfindel and Elemmakil both gasped as they drew their weapons. Even Voronwë, who had had plenty of time to get used to the sound during his travels, felt a thousand pricks of pain as gooseflesh churned across his body. Only Idril seemed unaffected.

When Tuor re-emerged, he carried his trident, black with orc blood, in one hand, and yanked on a rope pulling a snarling orc with the other. Blue rose petals flecked its damp face; they had already begun to wilt with black slime. A smell Voronwë hoped never to experience again – the scent of dead things, of rotten waste – invaded his nostrils, and he nearly retched.

“I found this one half an hour ago in the woods,” Tuor said, as if that explained everything. “He had companions. We are lucky our scouts spotted them, for they were trying very hard to explore unnoticed.” Voronwë took another look at the great trident’s jewels, now etched with the acidic blood of orcs, and gulped.

Idril approached the orc and caught one of her floating spheres in her hand, holding it between herself and the orc. “This land is sacred and secret. How did you enter it unseen?”

The orc seemed as though it was about to try spitting in her face, but its mouth only gaped open as it stared, wide-eyed, at the floating sphere. Idril’s hair began to ripple in an unseen wind. Slowly, as if the words were being pulled from it with a fishhook, the orc began to speak. “The black prince – the mole in the tunnel – he told us how to come – told us to watch and wait. We were not – we were not to be seen.”

“What was your purpose here?” Idril pressed.

“To see with our own eyes – to confirm that the black prince’s words were not lies – to bring the black prince’s messages and maps back to Lord Gothmog.”

Glorfindel and Idril both flinched visibly at the name, and Tuor frowned.

“How many are you?” Idril asked.

“We are four dozen. Seven of us escaped – into the mountains. They will be back to kill you all.”

Idril looked up at her husband and nodded. With one neat, smooth strike, Tuor swung his trident and severed the orc’s head from its shoulders. Idril gracefully sidestepped the spray of black blood. Voronwë was surprised that all of Gondolin did not hear the corpse drop like a sack of stones on the dark tile below.

“What do you require of us, my lady?” Pengolodh managed after he steadied himself against the table.

“For the moment, your oath of secrecy. It is vital that Maeglin continue to think himself secure, or an attack could come before we are ready,” Idril replied. “However, we must also make plans, and quickly, to evacuate the city when the invasion begins. The Enemy is ultimately a coward, and will wait to attack until he feels his victory is absolutely assured. We have a little time, I think, but only a little.”

“Evacuation plans?” Glorfindel said, aghast. “Mor – The Enemy now knows about Maeglin’s passage and the main gates. The exits are sealed to us. How do we evacuate when there is no escape?”

“Elemmakil,” Idril said, and the guard, still leaning heavily on Voronwë, jumped at hearing his name.

“My lady?”

“You asked earlier, Lothariel tells me, where all the stone for my garden came from. Allow me to show you.” A wry smile played across her face. “We will take the back staircase to the gardens below, and I will show you the true work that we have accomplished here.”

Tuor took one wide stride over the orc’s corpse, offered his arm to his wife, and they led the small procession to the shadowy gardens below.


	4. Shadows and Blame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idril and Tuor deal with an uninvited guest as old and new specters haunt the House of the Wing.

The party inside the House of the Wing thundered on as the hosts’ small, silent caravan threaded their way through the stone garden outside to the sheer cliffs that rose up into the pale cauldron of clouds above. A heavy fog rolled like a river between the nearby mountains, pooling in thick clumps and swallowing the dark silhouette of the forest. Elemmakil shivered at the chill. Voronwë made to offer him his cloak, but Elemmakil waved him away. He had spent years in a damp, cool tunnel. He could handle one winter’s night.

Of course, his days guarding the First Gate of Gondolin were no more. The idea still sent Elemmakil reeling. He had gotten into the habit of thinking himself a guard – the post was a dangerous, honorable charge that had been handed to him by King Turgon himself. He stood at the hole in Gondolin’s defenses and turned it into an arrowslit, ready to pounce on any enemy that managed to wander too close to the Hidden Realm. He was all too conscious of his place as the guardian of his people’s last, best hope. Even after Voronwë’s return, Elemmakil wrapped himself in the thoughts and trappings of a guardian. But what was a guardian without a thing to guard? What was a guard whose charge had been stolen behind his back as he watched the front door? Rage and despair made war in his mind.

At least Voronwë would be closer. That thought warmed him, if only a little. He would have to do the courtship properly, he could see now. He had been absurdly impulsive, and any fool could see Voronwë had been fretting over it for the last half hour. And in the war council, he had practically swooned upon the other elf. Had greater business not been at hand, his handling of Voronwë would have been all anyone talked about. Tuor himself had commented, as they left the House of the Wing, that they seemed to be getting on very well, earning him a scathing glare from Voronwë and what seemed to be a pinch on the arm from Idril. Elemmakil wondered if it might be worth it to simply lay himself down somewhere and beg Mandos for a job guarding his Halls.

A tap on his shoulder plucked him from his reverie, and Elemmakil looked up. They stood a quarter of a mile west from the house, in front of one of the many round, artificial cave mouths that honeycombed up the face of the cliff, producing the booming sound of ocean waves as one approached Tuor’s estate. Here, the mouths extended all the way to the floor of the valley, and they stood in front of one such chasm that looked no different from any other. A gust of warm wind surged toward them, bearing the moist stink of a cave with it.

“Memorize this spot,” Idril said gravely. “For we may not be able to show you again.”

Elemmakil obeyed, taking in every detail of the gaping maw before him, from the deep blue stone slabs at its feet to the mottled seashells and willow branch patterns carved into its edges. The mouth was wide enough for six men to walk abreast, and once all were ready, the lord and lady led the party into the cavern. After trudging forward for nearly thirty feet, Idril ignited a small bauble in the palm of her hand and let it hover above her head, facing the mottled wall at the end of the little tunnel.

“It does not seem like much of an escape,” Pengolodh said wryly.

Idril smiled at him over her shoulder. “Have you no faith in the Noldor, Pengolodh the Wise?” Her bauble shifted slightly to the right, and as it did, shadows bloomed on the wall, revealing the truth behind the illusion.

Elemmakil blinked in surprise. One moment, there was a wall. The next, there was a tunnel, nearly as wide as the one they were in now, plunging into the depths of the mountains.

“Well, now I know why he’s been feeling so smug,” Glorfindel said, shouldering forward to stand beside the princess. “I know Ecthelion’s work when I see it.”

“Indeed, the illusion is his,” Idril replied. “This tunnel burrows through this mountain and emerges on a high pass. From there, the trail leads down into gorges below, and, eventually, to the River Mindeb. Once we reach its shores, we will follow the river down to Doriath, where we may take some shelter if it still stands.”

“If?” Elemmakil said.

“There have been troubling rumors of late from Thingol’s kingdom, and Orodreth’s, which have come to us through Thorondor and his eagles,” Pengolodh said grimly. He fixed a critical eye on Tuor. “Some concern your cousin, and your uncle.”

Tuor bowed his head, but before he could speak, Voronwë snapped, “Lord Tuor is not his cousin.”

Pengolodh held up his hands. “Of course not. I merely wished to tell my lord of the fate of his family.”

“That can wait for another time,” Idril said, her voice ringing with finality. “If neither Doriath nor Nargothrond are able to provide us shelter, we will make for Cirdan’s settlement at the Mouths of Sirion. At Tuor’s request, Ulmo has kindly done us the favor of telling Cirdan to expect us. As of yet, he alone in the Havens knows of our plans.”

A shiver raced through the group. The news of the betrayal has been frightening enough, but now everything seemed suddenly real, with a destination in mind and an ally waiting outside the safety of Gondolin.

“Are there not spiders and worse waiting in the mountains?” One of the young lords in attendance asked warily. Elemmakil thought he recognized him as one of the first elves to pledge himself to the House of the Wing, a dark-haired Sindar.

“There were,” Tuor agreed. “Voronwë, Idril, and I have been leading many a hunting party into the mountains, clearing the trails of any nuisances we find.” He raised a hand before Pengolodh could comment. “I am very aware that’s how this whole mess started, but I assure you we have taken every precaution. Between Idril’s magic, my strength, and Voronwë’s fierce loyalty, we could rival Beren and Luthien’s deeds. Someday, despite the sadness of our circumstance, they will sing songs of our glory.”

“Did you just make me the dog?” Voronwë demanded.

“As lively as our forays into spider-slaying have been,” Idril interjected, casting annoyed glances at both her husband and her friend, “there are other troubles to consider. When an attack occurs, this tunnel cannot be hidden for long. The Enemy will no doubt discover our trail and may send some of his forces to attack us at our most vulnerable. I can provide some protection, but we cannot rely solely on my illusions, especially if I am delayed. The pass and the trail below must be defended. Glorfindel, I leave these plans to you. Recruit any soldiers you deem trustworthy and strong in battle.”

Glorfindel nodded solemnly. “The greatest vulnerability will be the pass you speak of, and the mouth of this tunnel itself. Defending such places will be tricky, but not impossible. With your permission, my lady, I will scout ahead and view the pass myself, while all is still dark.”

Idril nodded. “Be back before dawn. I would hate for you to be missed.” Her bauble drifted over to Glorfindel and followed him into the recesses of the tunnel, bobbing against his shoulder like a glowing hummingbird. The group watched the light fade until they were left in the near-blackness of the cavern.

“We should also away, my lady,” Lothariel put in. “Before we are missed.”

Idril murmured an agreement and the party trailed behind her slow, thoughtful steps as she strode out of the tunnel, her husband at her side.

“I suppose this tunnel will need a guard,” Elemmakil mused, letting his fingers run along the moss-covered stone as they emerged into the winter night.

“Oh? Yes, I suppose it shall,” Voronwë agreed. “A good thing we have an experienced guard on staff.”

“Yes, a good thing indeed,” Elemmakil replied, feeling at ease with himself again. “Lord Tuor did remark this was a position of great import.”

“It will certainly be less boring.” Voronwë said. “I’m sure we’ve missed a spider or two.”

“Something is not right,” Lothariel whispered, bringing the group to a halt. “See, a messenger is coming from the House.”

An elf was indeed charging towards them at speed, heedless of the way his footfalls scattered carefully-placed rocks and gemstones. He skidded to a stop in front of the Lord and Lady, fighting for breath. “Riders, my lady. Two of them. Ecthelion and – and the prince, my lady. They will be here in minutes.”

Elemmakil’s breath caught in his throat, but Idril and Tuor seemed unruffled. “Thank you, Eldor. Thoroncel, please warn Glorfindel. Ecthelion will surely wish to see him. Esteemed guests, please, let us return to the party. We do, of course, have an announcement to make.”

The quiet Sindar lord Elemmakil had noticed earlier, Thoroncel, trotted back towards the cliffs, while everyone else scurried to follow Tuor, who swept a laughing Idril up into his arms as they climbed the hidden staircase. They seemed remarkably happy, Elemmakil thought, for a couple whose greatest enemy was about to cross their doorstep.

\----------------------------------------------

 

Voronwë and Elemmakil met Prince Maeglin and Lord Ecthelion in the House’s bright, airy foyer, the murmur of many wine-emboldened voices muffled by the giant oak doors leading to the ballroom.

“Your grace,” Voronwë said smoothly. “The Lord and Lady rejoice that you could make your way to their humble estate after all. May I take your cloak?”

Maeglin snorted but tossed his embroidered black cloak to Voronwë without further protest. “There is nothing humble about this estate. I’ve seen the gardens. Idril has outdone herself. If only she possessed a partner able to truly understand her genius.”

A good thing Ecthelion was behind the prince, Elemmakil thought, for he was sure Tilion himself couldn’t have missed his eyes roll. He pulled on all his training as a guard to keep his face carefully blank. The task became far harder when Ecthelion smiled and winked at him over Maeglin’s shoulder.

“I am sure Lord Tuor appreciates it greatly,” Voronwë replied through the clenched teeth of his smile, “considering the entire garden is a gesture to quiet his sea-longing.”

“Ah, yes. You would know all about that, too, wouldn’t you – Voronwë, was it?”

“Beg pardon?” Voronwë replied, piling Ecthelion’s cloak atop Maeglin’s in his arms when it was offered to him. Maeglin nudged a speck of dirt off Ecthelion’s cloak and met Voronwë’s eyes.

“I still remember the passionate way he argued for you before our High King, when you should have been thrown from the parapet as my father was. Tell me, what did you do to earn such . . . affectionate loyalty as that? Did you lie with him at night to keep his mortal flesh warm?”

Voronwë’s cheeks paled before blossoming into a livid purple. He practically flung the cloaks at a terrified servant, who immediately fled. Ecthelion grabbed Maeglin’s forearm, the prince’s sleeve crumpling in his grip. “This is hardly princely behavior, your grace.”

At the same time, Voronwë drew himself up to his full height, almost an inch taller than the prince. “Your father,” he spat, “was executed for killing your mother. After he tried to kill you, your grace.”

“And how you all wish he had succeeded!” Maeglin snapped, throwing off Ecthelion’s hand. The outburst had an odd shrillness to it, and all at once Maeglin looked very small and wounded. Elemmakil suddenly recalled that Maeglin was quite young, nearly as young as he and Voronwë were.

Remembering the party of orcs discovered earlier this evening, he wondered if their leaders had already paid a visit to the prince, if they had reminded him of the Enemy’s expectations and promises. And now Maeglin had come here seeking – what? Renewed purpose? Comfort?

“No one wishes that,” Ecthelion said gently, although Voronwë’s furious face belied that statement.

An awkward pause crawled by as it became apparent that Voronwë did not yet have the grace or mental fortitude to formally announce the prince’s arrival, so they remained in the foyer, in a silent standoff. Elemmakil, still simmering himself, cleared his throat and all three elves turned to glare in unison at him. Elemmakil let out a long, slow breath, and indicated the great ballroom doors. “Your grace?”

Maeglin turned and nodded to Voronwë, which was the closest to an apology the elf was likely to get.

Voronwë reached for the door handle, an elegant bronze swan, and jumped backwards when the door opened of its own accord and Idril stepped through, followed swiftly by Lothariel, all unruffled poise.

Idril smiled warmly at her cousin. “Maeglin. I hope you will forgive the informality, but I wanted to speak with you in private.”

Maeglin’s smile widened as he took on a hungry, desperate air, and he laid one hand on her shoulder, his fingers caressing the base of her neck. “I wished the same for you. I have urgent news.”

Idril gently removed Maeglin’s hand and held it between both of hers. “So do I. Maeglin, I am with child.”

Maeglin’s face drained of color and his eyes narrowed as he snarled at the doors behind the princess. “With him?”

“That is the way of husbands and wives,” Idril said cheerfully. Maeglin tried to pull away from her, but she tightened her grip on his hand. “I want you to be a part of the child’s life. He’ll need to learn the way of smiths if he is to be a prince of the Noldor. Tuor is a warrior and I am skilled with stone, but I lack your cunning when it comes to metal. I want this child to look upon his whole family with love, Maeglin. Promise me you will treasure him as your mother treasured you.”

“Instead of resenting him?” Maeglin snapped. “Is that what you were going to say?”

“You need never feel resentment around me,” Idril replied.

“Resentment is all I ever had,” Maeglin bit back. Elemmakil wondered if he had forgotten the rest of them were there; Idril tended to monopolize one’s vision when she so chose. Feeling as though he was intruding, he crept over to Voronwë and gently laid a hand on the other elf’s elbow. Voronwë’s color looked nearly normal again, and now he fiddled with his cufflinks. He did not stir when Elemmakil’s hand touched him, but the guard felt his spirt lean into his for support.

“Resented by my father for being too Noldor. Resented by my mother for trapping her there, with – with him. Resented by you, for being all too happy to watch that monster die. I was willing to give you everything – and even that was not enough of a reason -” Maeglin grimaced at Idril’s stomach.

“I am not something you can buy, Maeglin,” Idril said gently. “but I also never needed a reason to love you. You are my aunt’s beloved son, my little cousin. That was always enough. I wish you understood. For your sake, if no one else’s.” She kissed the top of his hand and released it.

Maeglin scowled and turned on Voronwë, who reared back before he recovered himself and thrust out his jaw in a show of stubbornness, making both Idril and Lothariel sigh. Maeglin didn’t appear to notice. “Bring me my cloak,” the prince ground out. “Coming here was clearly a mistake.”

Voronwë swept away to fetch the prince’s cloak, and Maeglin took the opportunity to notice Elemmakil.

“Who are you?” the prince demanded.

“This is Elemmakil,” Ecthelion answered, gliding to stand between the prince and the guard. “He was formerly the guard of Gondolin’s First Gate.”

“I see,” Maeglin said, trying and largely failing to hide a smirk. “Thank you for your years of faithful service.”

“I was honored to serve, your grace,” Elemmakil replied, surprised at the evenness of his voice. It felt like something vicious was eating through his heart. His pulse thundered in his ears.

Voronwë returned with Maeglin’s cloak and the prince snatched it from him, stabbing himself in the thumb with the pin on the cloak’s clasp in his haste to put it on. He swore and sucked at his thumb before sweeping past Ecthelion towards the House’s main doors. Idril, making no move to follow him, returned to the ballroom with her handmaiden, the great doors closing behind her.

Voronwë shuddered and took a steadying breath before offering Ecthelion his own cloak. The elven lord held up his hands with a laugh. “I traveled all this way, so I shan’t be happy until I hear what Glorfindel thinks of Idril’s gardens. But first, a drink! A drink to keep me warm.” He tapped Voronwë’s shoulder affectionately. “It seems you could use one, as well.”

Voronwë laughed and clasped Ecthelion’s arm as the elven lord squeezed his shoulder. “I could indeed.”

Afterward, Elemmakil couldn’t quite understand how it had happened. In one instant, Voronwë and Ecthelion were in front of him, laughing, and in the next, Ecthelion was slumped against the wall on the other side of the parlor and Maeglin had Voronwë by the throat, pinned to one of the gigantic ballroom doors. Voronwë’s legs kicked out uselessly, and his fingers clawed at Maeglin’s black sleeves.

“They tortured you out there, didn’t they?” Maeglin growled, his face warping into a snarl as his thumbs dug into the space above Voronwë’s collar bone. Voronwë gagged. “You and that mortal rat you serve. Hunted by monsters, raised by savages, but you didn’t come out broken and hated like -” Maeglin released Voronwë, who collapsed, heaving, onto the polished stone floor. “What’s so special about you, that they all just fall over themselves? All these lords who line up to tend your fingers when they hurt?”

Elemmakil surged forward without thinking, drawing his knife, but he stopped so suddenly he nearly tripped over his own feet. The darkness underneath Maeglin’s black cloak seethed and rippled outward, and as it touched his feet he felt a cold terror rooting him to the spot. He couldn’t even lower his gaze to see if Voronwë was all right, though he could hear the other elf gasping. On the other side of the foyer, Ecthelion stirred. He wouldn’t wake in time.

Maeglin drew an obsidian sword from a midnight scabbard and sneered down at Voronwë before raising the blade above his head. From within the prison of his own mind, Elemmakil screamed.

Tuor snapped Maeglin’s wrist.

Elemmakil hadn’t even seen Tuor arrive, but a cold wind rushed in from the open front doors in the man’s wake. Elemmakil dropped like a stone, narrowly avoiding striking his head on the tile below. He crawled over to Voronwë and dragged the elf’s senseless body away from the prince. Voronwë groaned and leaned into Elemmakil’s chest, and the guard clutched him as if he was a child.

Maeglin himself had dropped his sword, which Tuor neatly caught in the palm of his left hand. His right was still closed around Maeglin’s wrist, knuckles white with strain. Maeglin hissed in pain and rounded on Tuor – then sagged against his immovable chest as Ecthelion cracked the prince across the back of his head with the flat of his palm.

“Damn fool,” the Lord of the Fountain gasped.

Glorfindel staggered into the parlor, face ashen and shoulders sagging. Alarmed, Ecthelion raced over and steadied him with an arm around the golden-haired elf’s shoulders. “What has happened to you?”

Thoroncel scurried in after Glorfindel, wringing his hands. “I found him like this, on the pass.”

Glorfindel cast Thoroncel an annoyed glance. “I had a vision of death, smoke, and danger. I cannot remember it now, but I assume it was about this.” He knelt at Maeglin’s side and ran a hand across the prince’s ebony hair. “He’s not too hurt. He’ll be all right, but he won’t remember anything come morning.” His eyes met Ecthelion’s. “We should take him back to the city tonight. We’ll say he indulged a bit too much, had a fall. I am sorry to leave early, Lord Tuor.”

Tuor waved a hand at the apology but frowned, his lips pursed in thought. “What was that shadow? Does he have the powers of the Enemy, perhaps?”

Ecthelion sighed and shook his head, heaving Maeglin up so that the prince’s head lolled on his shoulder. Asleep, he looked especially young. “No. That was the work of his father. Eöl was, in addition to a great smith and a wicked man, a skilled sorcerer, especially when it came to crafting weapons.”

Glorfindel plucked Maeglin’s sword from Tuor’s hand and gingerly placed it in its scabbard with a look of disgust. “Be glad you never met the man. His spear did the same thing to all of us, when he tried to kill his only son. Only Aredhel could bring herself to move.”

He studied Tuor curiously, but the man only shrugged. “I do not know why he couldn’t stop me. Perhaps Ulmo’s power has not completely fled. I am grateful, I admit.”

Ecthelion bounced Maeglin’s body over his shoulder and shook his head ruefully. “I know Idril hopes to save him, but I still insist it would be best to evacuate now.”

Tuor crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “Nay. If we strike down Maeglin, flee the city, and reveal our hand now, the forces of Morgoth will be waiting for us as soon as we emerge on the banks of the river. We will die in the hundreds, like wheat in the harvest. We bide our time, we wait for the attack, and we plan to save as many as we can. That is our mission. That is our task.”

Ecthelion and Glorfindel both nodded, Ecthelion reluctantly, and made their way to the front doors, where Thoroncel waited with three horses.

Tuor turned to face Elemmakil. “Speaking of tasks, I have one for you. There’s an axe sitting just outside the door. I want you to take it and destroy one of the islands for me.”

Elemmakil’s mouth dropped open. “Destroy one of Idril’s islands?!”

Tuor waved impatiently. “We will replace it soon enough. You probably know it. It has a flaming cauldron, and stones lining the path to the peak.”

Elemmakil felt chills scuttle up and down his body. “I know the one,” he whispered.

Tuor nodded, lifting Voronwë’s body in his arms as though he weighed nothing at all. Lothariel slipped out of the ballroom doors and glided forward with a restless energy, followed closely by Annaiel, whose eyes watered at the sight of Voronwë’s bruised neck. Lothariel stroked the mottled skin with a delicate touch. “Is all well? My lady told me you had things well in hand, Lord Tuor, but she feared Voronwë required our aid.”

“He’ll need to be seen to,” Tuor answered, handing Voronwë off to Thoroncel, who swayed slightly under the elf’s weight before regaining his balance.

“Let’s take him up to his chambers,” Lothariel murmured, beckoning the others to follow her down a darkened hallway. She gave both Tuor and Elemmakil a reassuring smile. “It’s not nearly as terrible as it looks. He’ll be awake and complaining before sunup.”

“I suppose I’d better get back in there,” Tuor sighed, smoothing out the wrinkles on his blue tunic. He adjusted his silver sash to hide a stubborn spot of black orc blood.

“Ah, yes,” Elemmakil said. “Congratulations, by the way.”

Tuor brightened, cheeks red as a beaming smile spread over his face. “Yes! I’m to be a father!” He cocked his head, as though listening to someone nearby. “Well, I’m to be a father if I can manage to join Idril in the next two minutes. She’s stalled enough, she says.” Tuor placed one giant hand on Elemmakil’s shoulder, and the guard felt like he was a child again, his father’s hand guiding him through the streets of Gondolin.

“Thank you, Elemmakil.” Tuor turned and barreled back into the ballroom.

Feeling hollow and adrift, Elemmakil found the axe where Tuor had left it and made his way to the uncanny island that so haunted Voronwë. There were little corpses, knit together with grass, hanging from each stone. Elemmakil’s vision went hazy with fury. Doom was everywhere. That didn’t mean Voronwë had to suffer through it again.

Elemmakil raised the axe and tore into the rock. He hoped, with a savage delight, that somewhere across the great sea the real island was also exploding in a cloud of sparks and thunder. He was covered in pale dust by the time he was finished, and barely conscious of the cheers erupting from the nearby festivities.

He stood in the darkness for a long time, imagining what Voronwë would think when he saw the island had been destroyed. He dropped the axe in the dirt and slouched back to the House of the Wing. He wanted to be there, when Voronwë woke up. He would be damned if the sea had him again.

First, Voronwë. Then, the tunnel. Then, his new household. So many things to guard. He could rise to meet them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! In the canon, the Fall of Gondolin occurs less than a year after Maeglin's capture. In this story, it's a teensy bit longer than that (Let's say two years.). I hope Maeglin's characterization here doesn't feel too maniacal. 
> 
> So much of the Silmarillion involves people processing and attempting to heal from trauma, with varying levels of success. Even though Maeglin arrived at Gondolin, I don't think he ever really left his father's forest, just as part of Voronwe has never left the sea and part of Turgon never left the ice. Tuor, being mortal and not bound by an eternal memory, seems to cope with his own demons the best. 
> 
> I've always personally taken great inspiration from the way Tolkien was able to overcome his own post-war trauma through his writing. The Fall of Gondolin was one of the first stories he ever wrote, and I love it as a kind of metaphor for recovery from mental and physical wounds of war. You may not defeat every dragon and keep the castle, but surviving is a victory in and of itself. I'm rambling, sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who has appreciated and continued to follow this series! A commitment to original work has been keeping me away for a while, but I hope to have this particular story finished up soon. Sorry to keep everyone waiting for so long!


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